


No fretful orchid

by Petra



Category: due South
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-31
Updated: 2008-05-31
Packaged: 2017-10-18 16:57:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petra/pseuds/Petra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The aphrodisiacal qualities of various forms of Polynesian orchids have been mentioned in the botanical journals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No fretful orchid

**Author's Note:**

> [](http://sageness.livejournal.com/profile)[**sageness**](http://sageness.livejournal.com/) beta read this for me in all of its happily cliché glory. All remaining mistakes and omissions are mine. Carla and Jack listened and cheered as I wrote it and made sure that I included all the important parts.

The orchid on Francesca's desk is clearly the source of the Smell, wholly deserving of the capital letter, that hangs over the bullpen. It is a magnificent specimen of its species, a full handspan across the blossom, with proud, belled petals stubbled with trichomes with the semblance of hairs.

No one in the office seems to be paying it the slightest bit of attention when Fraser arrives, however. Francesca herself is gripping the edge of her desk beside the ribbon-wrapped flower pot with whitened knuckles and moaning, "Oh, God, yes." Lieutenant Welsh's hands, grasping her hips, are no less strained.

When Fraser pauses by her desk, his eyes firmly fixed on the flower so as to spare them embarrassment, Francesca groans. "Jeez, I knew I shoulda held out --"

Welsh laughs and does something that makes her shake the desk. "You're just fine, Francesca."

All of the papers that usually inhabit Huey's desk are strewn on the floor around it, which is enough of a clue that Fraser keeps his gaze on his path. This does not prevent him from hearing Dewey ask in a rather dazed voice, "So, do you smoke after sex?"

Huey's response is a lewd chuckle and a good-natured, if predictable, "Why don't you look and see?"

By the time Fraser reaches Ray's desk, he is torn between horror of what -- or whom -- he may find and terror of becoming that someone himself. However, when he looks -- not entirely through his fingers, for the pride of Canada -- he finds that Ray is inexplicably absent. Where precisely he may have ended up is not entirely beyond Fraser's ken, but given that Francesca is otherwise occupied, it is possible that he is alone.

Unless ASA Kowalski --

Jealousy is a thoroughly poisonous emotion, and a particularly futile one considering one's partner's ex-wife. Fraser tamps it down as firmly as he can and makes his way among variously groaning police and furniture to the supply closet, where he knocks.

"God no," Ray says from within.

"I'm fully dressed," Fraser volunteers. He does not add, "And I will not make any attempt upon your virtue," because he is not thoroughly certain that that is true.

When Ray opens the door enough to peek out with one eye, Fraser feels the familiar urge of desire, but he remonstrates with himself regarding Ray's apparent feelings on the subject and merely tips his hat.

"They're all fucking nuts," Ray says. "I mean -- oh, jeez." He covers his eyes. "So many things I never wanted to see."

"Human desire is --" A moan echoes down the corridor that sounds entirely too much like Lieutenant Welsh. Fraser falters, unable to complete the sentence in a reassuring way.

"Scary, bad, and wrong," Ray says. "You coming in, or standing there all day?"

"I believe the best course of action would be to remove the cause of this -- ah -- Boschian-Freudian compulsion. To perform, as it were, an orchidectomy."

Ray nods. "The sooner the better, if you got the stones for it."

Fraser considers the various murder scenes he has encountered over the years and compares them to the sound, wholly unwanted, of creaking desks. Some of them do not benefit from the juxtaposition. "I'll be right back," he promises Ray, and with utmost dispatch, he returns to the bullpen, takes the flower from its juddering perch, wraps it in a series of trashbags, and removes it to a dumpster outside.

This accomplished, he opens all of the windows that he can find, stepping over various colleagues with a murmured, "Pardon me," and one "Ah, my deepest regrets" when he cannot help but tread on someone's hand. If he ever finds out who that someone was, he will chide him or her for poor intimate habits.

Maybe.

As the pollution-tainted but blessedly anti-euphoric air of Chicago blows away the apparently intoxicating scent, couples and rather-more-than-couples begin disentangling, looking at each other with chagrin, and readjusting their clothing. Some of the participants appear to be handcuffed, either from recent arrest or passing whim.

Fraser returns to the closet once he hears the Lieutenant's office door slam and knocks. "I believe it is as safe to come out as it will ever be."

Ray emerges with his hand in front of his eyes. "It's all over?"

"Bar the aftermath," Fraser says.

Ray lets out a deep breath and drops his hand. "I've seen weird, Fraser, but that -- that was really, really weird."

Fraser takes a deep breath and feels the assault of desire again, though not anew. "Yes," he agrees. "Though there are many myths -- and not merely among the Inuit," he adds, when Ray rolls his eyes, "of similar occurrences, perhaps equally likely to be attributed to floral interference."

"Floral --" Ray rubs his eyes. "Look, I'm not allergic to nothing, and I don't figure everyone else around here is either, so -- what's the moral, here?"

Fraser thinks of Huey, who was rubbing his neck above his misaligned collar as the intoxication faded. "That it is human nature to take a chemical excuse for lack of inhibitions whenever possible."

"Well, there you are, bro! I thought I heard Fraser." Francesca says, her normally sunny smile still several shades more lascivious than her norm. She gives Fraser an all-too-familiar look and pinches Ray's bottom. The flower was, after all, on her desk. "Where'd you end up?" She gives Fraser a sudden perturbed look. "In the closet?"

Ray looks at Fraser before he answers, and for a heartbeat-skipping second, Fraser expects him to pretend that their situation was much more compromising than it was. They would hardly be the only partners caught with their pants down at the moment, and of all the instances in which it might have happened, surely it is one of the most forgivable. Ray licks his lips and Fraser curses the caution that stopped him from walking into the closet and shutting the door on the orgy to let it rage as it might.

"Yeah," Ray says, and grins. "But only 'cause I didn't feel like making it with the desk sergeant." He nods at Fraser. "And then Fraser here showed up and saved the day without even breaking a sweat."

Francesca's bosom heaves with an impressed and wistful sigh. "Thanks, Frase. You protected my virtue."

Her virtue, such as it might theoretically be, was wholly open for exploitation by the time Fraser arrived, but he has no need to embarrass her in front of her putative brother by pointing this out. "You're welcome, Francesca."

"Not sure who we're going to charge with this one, though," Ray says, and he leans against the doorjamb. "Where do you even get a freaky bloom like that in this town?"

"The aphrodisiacal qualities of various forms of Polynesian orchids have been mentioned in the botanical journals," Fraser volunteers, omitting to mention that that was only true in the less rigorously peer-reviewed journals, and that the papers in question had been contested since their publication. "It might be best to start with the local greenhouses."

"You think Welsh would --"

Francesca puts a hand on both of their shoulders and shoves them toward the door. "I'll tell him. You get out there."

Ray raises an eyebrow at Fraser as they are propelled into the street, and Fraser shrugs.

"Did Frannie -- and Welsh --"

Fraser shakes his head. "A gentleman never tells," he says, though the phrase makes Ray as suspicious as his namesake.

"You didn't touch Frannie, did you?"

"No," Fraser says, with a sense of relief. Better to end that line of speculation immediately. "I went as directly to your desk, and then to your hiding place, as was feasible under the circumstances."

Ray shudders. "Right, what with all the -- right." He swings into the driver's seat of the GTO and chuckles. "I can just see you tiptoeing past all of 'em."

Fraser's first response is a sympathetic and irrationally possessive, "I was so glad to find you alone, I almost kissed you." That is as easy to suppress as the kiss itself was. "How long had you been hiding when I arrived?"

"Felt like forever," Ray says, and shivers again. "An hour, maybe, tops."

"Did you see the flower arrive?"

"Nah, I was working on the Czernowitz case." Ray taps his fingers absently on the steering wheel. "First thing I knew something was fishy, I looked up and there's Huey leaning over his desk and planting one on -- well, you saw."

"Yes." Fraser feels something unaccustomed twist in his stomach at the thought. If he had been there from the start -- if he, too, had felt that sort of effect -- would he have allowed himself the same liberties? A treacherous voice in his heart wants him to believe that he very well might have.

Ray blows out his breath. "I didn't want him smooching me, so I ran for it. I'm a lot better looking than Dewey, and Huey's right there, you know? Thought I was doomed the second he got sick of Dewey's stupid mouth."

"Of course, Ray." Fraser steels himself against any homophobic remarks Ray might make; under the circumstances, they would be only logical. He does not wish to hear them, but he can't allow himself to exhibit too much shock at such language.

Ray is smiling, though, and glancing at him. "Yeah, I remember you said. Anyway, there's me, safe and sound and holding the door shut when who the hell knows who's knocking, and I try like hell not to figure out exactly who's doing what to who, and --"

"Whom," Fraser says. "Who's doing what to whom."

"Whatever. And then you knock --" Ray bites off the end of the sentence and shakes his head.

Fraser wants to know exactly how Ray might finish the sentence, but he can only wait so long before it will be time to entirely change the subject, perhaps to the topic of where, precisely, they are going. "It must have been a shock," he says, with the sort of empathy he normally uses for injured citizens.

"I figured you were gonna drag me out of there and shuck me naked in three seconds flat," Ray says, so fast that if Fraser were not accustomed to listening to him in all manner of situations, he might not have understood the phrase. "Some -- you know -- Canadian survival skill thing."

"Ah," Fraser says, looking out the passenger side window to combat the ridiculous superstition that Ray would be able to see in his eyes how avidly he is picturing the scene.

The silence between them stretches longer this time. "Ah?" Ray says. "I tell you about hell on freakin' earth and all you give me is 'ah'? Not even an 'Of course I wouldn't have done that, Ray,' or a 'I would've been all over Frannie, actually, Ray'?"

Fraser tries to compose an appropriate response. When he finds one, they are stopped at a red light, which is the safest place available at the moment for such confessions. Even so, it is physically painful to clear his throat. "Either of those sentences would be a lie."

"And you don't lie," Ray says, so automatically Fraser thinks he's ignoring the all-important gist of what Fraser has said.

He pauses for a moment, so long that the light changes and he does not register the fact until someone behind them honks.

"Oh," he says.

"We really ought to investigate the source of the flower," Fraser says, keeping his voice as stern as he can.

Ray hits the gas so hard the car indubitably leaves rubber on the road. "Hang on, wait, hang on here. You just said you would've walked right by Frannie and peeled me outta my pants."

"Well, Ray, under the influence of the appropriate mixture of aphrodisiac and stimulants --"

"No, I'm listening better than that." Ray holds up his hand. "'cause you said you basically don't believe that has anything to do with the price of potatoes, what with it being all down to self-control. Which --" he glances at Fraser. "Which I guess you got a lot of, seeing as I didn't get naked in there even one little bit."

Fraser nods slightly, acknowledging this as the frustrated but sincere compliment it seems to be. "I believed you would find such a display -- offputting."

He means to leave Ray plenty of room to brush it off, as well as sufficient space to allow them both to blame whatever happens on the orchid that is not even slightly responsible. Ray shakes his head -- not strongly enough to qualify as a full-fledged denial of Fraser's words -- and pulls into the University of Chicago's main campus, then into their parking garage.

Under normal circumstances, Fraser would be gratified to see Ray parking legally for once, but this seems more like a sign of deep distress than reformation. "I'm sorry," he says, when they have well and truly parked.

"You didn't do nothing," Ray says.

"Precisely."

Ray turns in his seat and frowns at him in the sickly yellow lighting. "I think that flower really screwed my brain here, Fraser. Are you sorry 'cause of what you did, or what you didn't do, or what?"

Fraser spreads his hands. "Any of that. All of it. I --" he presses his lips together and marshals the words firmly.

Ray gets out of the car as quickly as if Fraser has pushed him. "Flowers of doom, Fraser, definitely messing with both our heads." He whistles softly. "Good thing Dief wasn't at the 2-7 today, you know?"

The mental image of the possible consequences is not sufficient to distract Fraser from the things he had prepared himself to admit. However, the moment is entirely gone, and Ray clearly has no interest in hearing any such admissions. "The effects may have been negligible," he observes, allowing the subject change because there is little else he can do without offending Ray's sensibilities. "Catnip, for example, stimulates the same cells as feline sex hormones, and the humble but extremely expensive truffle is harvested thanks to sows who believe that they smell exactly like randy boars."

"Thanks, Fraser," Ray says, his sardonic humor back in place. "I wasn't going to buy 'em because I don't believe in eating any damn mushroom that costs more than gold, but now I'm really not interested."

"They're subterranean fungus, not mushrooms -- and you're quite welcome." Fraser adjusts his sleeves and, with a quick breath, his internal landscape. Ray has had a distressing day and hardly needs any more disruptions. "Perhaps we should investigate the greenhouse," he suggests, as they start for the stairs.

Ray thumps him companionably -- almost affectionately -- in the shoulder. "I don't got any gas masks in the trunk."

Fraser raises his eyebrows at Ray. "Judging by past experience, if it's the same species, we'll be fine."

For a moment, Ray looks guilty, as though he has as much to hide as Fraser. Then he smiles. He is, after all, skilled at undercover work. Perhaps this is simply another layer for him. "Let's go," he says, and Fraser can't do anything but follow him. When Fraser stops a passing student to ask for directions to the greenhouse, it seems to take all of Ray's self-control to wait for him rather than go haring off in some direction or other.

Most of the orchids in the greenhouse reserved for tropical experimentation bear no resemblance whatsoever to the one responsible for the ruckus at the station, and the only one that comes near to it in shape or size is, as far as Fraser is concerned, wholly scentless. The technician -- if such a title is appropriate for an underfed, sleepless graduate student, whose badge identifies her as Jen -- looks baffled at their questions. "I'm sorry, Officers, I just don't have any idea what you could mean."

"The damn thing made everybody go crazy," Ray says. "Tearing each other's clothes of ain't the half of it."

Jen the graduate student laughs, her eyes widening slightly. "If our flowers could do that kind of thing, the frat boys would steal them all, so it's probably just as well they can't."

Fraser examines the sepals on the specimen that most closely resembles the one at the station. "Do you know of anyone investigating psychotropic effects of plants?"

"The frat boys, sure -- but in the area of perfumes --" Jen looks up and to the left, clearly trying to remember. "I saw an article in American Journal of Botany a few years ago, but there was a lot of controversy over it and my thesis advisor said the authors were crackpots."

"So that's a no?" Ray asks, glaring from the plant to the her. "I don't exactly got a subscription to that."

"There are no reliably documented reports," Jen says. "But if I hear anything, or my advisor knows anything, I'll call you."

"Thank you kindly," Fraser says. As they walk back to the car, he observes to Ray, "There are indubitably private breeders who may well be experimenting with something of this nature."

"Why anybody'd want that in their flower garden --" Ray runs his hand through his hair.

Fraser considers briefly whether this question was wholly rhetorical. "Given the size of the bloom, it is unlikely that the species would survive outside in this climate zone. However, there is sufficient demand for drugs such as 'Ecstasy' and the like that it seems probable that someone, somewhere, thinks that that form of intoxication would add an intriguing element to a party."

"Somebody somewhere thinks a lot of nutty things," Ray says. When they reach the car, he leans on the roof and taps his fingers. "So where do you want to start with these private greenhouse things?"

"There must be some sort of permit process necessary for any large operation, so it ought to be possible to locate them." Fraser frowns. "Francesca may also have some idea regarding the source of the flower if she is now -- lucid."

"I'm not going back there today," Ray says, holding up his hands. "The flower's gone, but the memories are right here --" he clutches his forehead as if it pains him "-- and you gotta give a guy a little time to recover from that kind of thing."

"Whatever you need, Ray." Fraser considers their other options. "It may be best to simply put this investigation aside for now and have dinner."

"Dinner. Right." Ray gets in the car and starts the engine before Fraser opens the door on his side. "Food might be good. There a game on tonight?"

"I should see to Diefenbaker," Fraser says, hoping that the excuse will garner him an evening alone to make his own attempts at forgetting the carnality he would rather not have seen, as well as the desires that he clearly needs to forget. "I'm sure Constable Turnbull has had enough of his company for the day."

Ray shrugs and drives entirely too quickly, given that they are not pursuing anyone. "We'll get enough pizza for three. I can spring for it."

On any other night, he would be pleased to spend as much time as possible in their normal round of camaraderie, but the mental images of himself undressing Ray at speed have not yet faded sufficiently from his consciousness. Still, it is difficult to demur in the face of so appealing an invitation, however advisable it is. "He's becoming impossibly spoiled," Fraser says, and Ray laughs.

"A little pizza never hurt anybody, even wolves. Let's go get him."

"On the contrary, Ray, it has negatively affected his digestion, motivation, and willingness to seek nutrition in more appropriate forms." Fraser shakes his head, half in frustration and half in despair. None of his arguments regarding Diefenbaker's health have ever held much sway with Ray, and this one is no more likely than the rest to exempt him from a stressful evening laden with the need to sublimate his desires.

"There's not enough pemmican in the Northwest Areas to keep that furball fed," Ray says fondly.

"You mean the Northwest Territories," Fraser corrects him, though he's moderately certain that Ray has said it incorrectly just to bait him.

"Sure, of course." Ray steers them to the Consulate with the ease of a man on a much-traveled track, obligatory U-turns and all. Fraser finds it nearly impossible to volunteer any conversational gambits; to raise the subject of the flower they should be hunting would induce both guilt and discomfort. Ray apparently faces some of the same difficulty, for he is quiet until they reach their destination. "I could order the pizza while you change," he offers, pulling out his phone.

"Thank you kindly," Fraser says, as automatic a response as blinking in sunlight. He tells himself repeatedly, as he finds appropriately loose and comfortable civilian attire, that Ray is not interested. If Ray had wanted anything like what Fraser wants, the opportunity was clearly present the moment Fraser arrived at the station. The thought is so frustrating that he has to restrain himself from throwing his hat onto his desk. He hangs his jacket up, thoroughly inclined to stomp back to the curb and tell Ray to keep his misbegotten pizza to himself. He smiles at the thought of how shocked Ray would be at such a juvenile outburst from him.

Ray would rather spend the evening with Fraser than in any other pursuit; he had invited Fraser specifically and Diefenbaker as well. That should be flattery enough to still any pangs of the heart.

There is no space for pointless reiterations of the phrase "if only," and Fraser allows himself none. Ray wants company, and company he shall have. Well-behaved company bearing no flowers whatsoever, and slightly less couth company shedding on his couch. But he did invite the latter, though when Fraser tells Diefenbaker so, Diefenbaker laughs at him.

"My intentions are perfectly innocent," Fraser tells him.

He hardly believes himself, however much he wants to, so he cannot fault Diefenbaker for his incredulous snort. That does not make it any easier to take.

"I missed my chance," he says instead, and Diefenbaker nudges him with his nose, a lupine sympathy that leaves his thigh pale grey. "I'm still not sure when."

Diefenbaker does not go so far as to suggest that the matter was decided before Fraser had a chance to act, but he does imply that Stella Kowalski had more than a little to do with his present predicament.

Fraser pauses by the door to unlock it. "It's not useful, fair, or logical to blame one's problems on someone else -- particularly not someone who has so explicitly removed herself from the playing field, as it were."

Diefenbaker disregards this with a flick of his tail that makes it clear he thinks Ray is perfectly worthwhile, but that there are obstacles in fine silk still to be overcome.

"You're exaggerating the case," Fraser says as Diefenbaker goes down the stairs, fully aware that he's being entirely ignored.

By the time Fraser reaches the car, Diefenbaker has settled himself in the back seat. Judging by the fresh saliva on the back of Ray's hand, Ray has informed him of their dinner plans. "We should get there just about when the pizza does," Ray says, grinning at Fraser.

It is the sort of grin that makes Fraser want to either charge into danger with him or, more perilously, kiss him senseless. Given that there is no danger to be had, the latter temptation is stronger than it might otherwise be. "How fortuitous," Fraser says, and sets himself the task of mentally tracing all of the forms of knots he can recall offhand.

"Fortuitous," Ray says, tasting the word. "Like blanket forts? I made a couple of those, back in the day. Nice and cozy until you practically couldn't breathe."

"Not at all like blanket forts. More like fortune. Although I do understand both the appeal of comfort to the point of smothering and its inherent danger. The urge to get close to a woodstove in the depths of January, for example, shares many of the same traits."

"You'd think that'd be more a burning problem than a breathing problem." Ray glances at him with a slight frown.

"Until you take into account the dangers of carbon monoxide poisoning, yes."

"Oh. Right." Ray shivers. "Figures there'd be kind of a lot of that with the snow and all, but I've seen a couple cases here, too. One of them wasn't even self-inflicted."

Fraser sighs. "It can be hard to determine what was intentional versus what was not when it takes two weeks for anyone to realize that someone has been out of town too long." He is obscurely proud of himself for finding a topic that cuts through his lust long enough to let him form thoughts independent of it until the pride trips him in and of itself, and the lust comes back full strength.

"I bet," Ray says, and gives Fraser's thigh a companionable and wholly unexceptionable squeeze.

Had he done it ten blocks earlier, it would have been unremarkable as well, but Ray's home is on the next cross street and the simple, thoughtless touch has made Fraser's thoughts flee him entirely.

If he had anything to say, it would be a challenge to express himself, as his mouth has gone quite dry. He takes the tacit excuse of contemplating mortality -- as opposed to immorality, which he is not merely contemplating but also pondering, cogitating, and appraising.

He has not struck upon any rational thing that he might say before they have arrived, nor has he found any line of reasoning that makes him less likely to embarrass himself without benefit of excuse. They have had no near-death experiences all day, and he did so well in disclaiming the near miss with the botanical roué that relying on it now would merely make Ray more suspicious.

"We're here," Ray says, a laugh behind his words as if he can't believe he is stating something so utterly obvious to Fraser.

It is enough to get Fraser out of the car, if only so that he is on the other side of a solid object from Ray for a moment. Diefenbaker gets out on Fraser's side and gives him a sardonic look that lets him know precisely how obviously impaired his thoughts are. "Thank you," Fraser says to him.

A pizza delivery car pulls up on the street, and it distracts both Ray and Diefenbaker long enough for Fraser to find some modicum of decorum.

It is not easy to maintain his composure once they are in Ray's apartment, the pizza box sprawled open on the coffee table in front of the television and Ray equally splayed on his couch. "Help yourself," he says to Fraser, as he has said so many times before. He turns on the television and warns Diefenbaker, "You're only getting a third of the pie, so don't inhale the next piece."

Diefenbaker takes a piece of pizza and makes a most inappropriate suggestion to Fraser regarding exactly what he might have for dinner if he has the -- gumption -- to request it.

"Don't be so feral," Fraser tells him firmly. Diefenbaker drops half his piece of pizza and grins. "Oh, that is disgusting."

Ray turns to look at Diefenbaker, then at Fraser. "What?"

"Sometimes I wish I had a turtle," Fraser says, enunciating as clearly as he can.

"They eat a lot less pizza," Ray agrees over Diefenbaker's protest.

"And they keep their thoughts to themselves, I'm sure."

Ray laughs. "Mostly." He pats the sofa next to himself. "Have a seat, stay a while."

For a wiry, slim man, he generally manages to take up much more space than anyone would believe. There is enough cushion next to him for Fraser to take a seat without letting his knee brush Ray's, but only just. He retrieves a piece of pizza just as the game comes back from commercial.

As captivating as Fraser often finds hockey, it lacks its usual charm tonight -- or its usual charm pales beside that of Ray. He is sufficiently focused on his peripheral vision and the sight of Ray's thigh next to his that he does not react when Toronto scores a goal.

That, more than anything, ruins his plausible deniability.

As soon as Ray turns to look at him, eyes wide in the sympathetic adrenaline of spectating, Fraser covers his face with one hand. "Something in my eye," he says.

Ray takes hold of his wrist and Fraser is certain Ray feels his pulse accelerate through that grip. "Let me see."

"I think I got it," Fraser says, but opens his eyes wide and submits to the necessary examination nevertheless. Ray's fingers on his cheek make him shiver, and his breath, close enough to taste the tarragon, adds a special dimension to the torment.

"Guess you did," Ray says, after far longer than it would take to ascertain that there was nothing in Fraser's eye at all. He does not sit back down. "You want to show me that survival thingy now?"

"Which?" Fraser asks, almost certain that he knows, but needing Ray's reassurance before he oversteps his bounds.

Ray gives him a crooked smile. "The one you didn't before. With the clothes thing. 'cause hell, I haven't got hypothermia, but --" he kisses Fraser, and his self-diagnosis appears to be perfectly accurate; Ray's mouth is warm enough to destroy glaciers, ice fields, and every shred of Fraser's utterly misplaced self-control.

Fraser pulls him down by the hips -- too harshly, too desperately, surely -- and Ray half-falls on him, ending up almost entirely in his lap and kissing him again with the same hungry edge. "Ray," he says between kisses.

"Forgot my pants," Ray says and mouths his ear, still so searingly hot that Fraser can feel his brain melting significantly.

"Ah," he says, and as soon as he can make his fingers obey him, he unbuttons the fly of Ray's trousers. That is enough of a step away from the norm -- or even the plausible -- that he pauses, breaking off the kiss and asks, "You're sure?"

Ray stares at him with the sort of incomprehension he generally only receives when he's been addressing his father. "Hell yes," he says, and drags Fraser's hand back to his groin.

It is not the time to ask any of the difficult questions that should be asked under such circumstances, not even the one concerning how deeply Ray has considered this act and its effect on their ability to work together. It should be, but even the thought of asking makes Fraser laugh and squeeze Ray through his boxers to feel the weight and overwhelming heat of him.

"What?" Ray asks. When Fraser looks up, he's grinning. "Don't they get erections in Canada?"

Fraser kisses him again and moves out from under him, settling him back on the couch as he arranges himself on his knees. "Yes. Many."

Ray strokes his hair -- pets his hair, hard -- and edges forward on the couch to kiss him again. "I was starting to wonder."

"I wasn't sure," Fraser says, and tugs Ray's boxers down until he lifts his hips and Fraser can get them thoroughly around his thighs. "That -- you wanted this." He buries his face in Ray's thigh to get to know the scent of him more thoroughly.

"God -- I -- I wasn't either -- but yes." Ray tangles his fingers in Fraser's hair. "But -- this isn't that -- that flower thing, right?"

Fraser tastes the inside of Ray's thigh -- he groans, not at all softly, over a goal from the hockey game on the television -- and analyzes the taste. "I highly doubt it."

"Good, good. Jesus, you're going to sniff me to death." Ray rubs the back of Fraser's neck, then lets his hand fall limp when Fraser licks the head of his erection. Even the taste of him burns with vivacity, bitter-salt though it is. The solid weight of him is enough to make Fraser moan and take as much as he can, throwing caution to the orchidaceous wind. "Or -- or that, fuck, yes."

Fraser hums his agreement and Ray lets his head fall back. He's moving already, tiny, nearly suppressed jerks, and he's running his fingers through Fraser's hair as if it pains him to be still. "Your mouth, I --" he shudders, laughing. "Gonna make me embarrass myself here, Fraser --"

The feel of him trying not to push, the taste of him desperate with passion have brought to Fraser to the same straits. He can't bring himself to reassure Ray of this in any way that requires stopping, much less slowing down. They've never been good at going slowly enough for safety, and this is no time to change that pattern. He groans instead and does his best to meet Ray's next jerky thrust.

"Oh, oh fuck -- I can't, I --" Ray smacks him in the shoulder. His voice is low and desperate, as it should be. "I'm gonna come, Fraser, can't help it --"

Fraser savors every shaking breath and shiver, until Ray moans again and lets himself go. The way his orgasm feels, rushing, and its inimitable taste overwhelm him as much as Ray, making him shudder with the same pleasure.

The doubled climax gives Fraser a long moment wherein there is nowhere he wants to be more than where he is. He doesn't look up until Ray says his name, laughing again and shaking his shoulder. "Get up here and let me do you."

Fraser feels the sort of embarrassment Ray protested against. "Later," he says, and Ray looks -- nervous.

"Later?"

Fraser can't quite meet his eyes while he stands up, and he's extremely glad that Diefenbaker has decided not to witness this particular display of hominid folly.

"Oh -- oh, Fraser." Ray gets to his feet -- shakily -- and embraces him. "Later."

*

Later comes rather sooner than Fraser expects it to, but then, so does morning. He wakes not long after dawn, aware from the first that he is in an unfamiliar place from the odd angle of the light. As soon as he is aware of his surroundings -- Ray's bedroom, positively strewn with clothing; Ray's bed, with Ray's arm around his chest -- he hears Diefenbaker's entirely reasonable complaint from without and steels himself to rise.

Ray mumbles a complaint against the back of his neck. The sound seems to wake him partway and he pats Fraser on the chest twice before he says, "Morning."

"Good morning," Fraser says, covering Ray's hand with his own.

"You stayed," Ray says, sounding bewildered and deeply in need of some form of chemical stimulant.

"Of course." Fraser shrugs slightly. "Though at the moment, I really must see to Diefenbaker before he wears out his welcome."

"Oh," Ray says, and lets Fraser go. "You do that."

Some of the clothing variously crumpled and thrown on the floor is in no state for public view, most particularly Fraser's undergarments and trousers. "If I could trouble you for a pair of pants --"

Ray pulls the covers more tightly around himself. "You already got in my pants, here, buddy. My pants is your pants. Second drawer over there," he says with a wave of his hand.

"Thank you kindly." Some of the pants seem as though they would hardly fit Ray, much less Fraser, but he finds a pair of serviceable sweatpants. "I'll be back shortly," he promises.

"You damn well better be or I'm sending in the cavalry," Ray says, propping himself up on his elbows. Having Ray watch him dress is novel, and if Fraser had fewer pressing obligations, he might well undress again immediately. "I'm making breakfast."

Diefenbaker's commentary on the subject of Ray, increased intimacy, nudity, and the benefits of someone who doubtless makes something other than oatmeal for breakfast when he has company takes the length of the walk.

Fraser counsels him to keep his more personal observations to himself, rather than make them where they might offend the innocent. Or Ray.

He has to allow that Diefenbaker has a point regarding Ray's relative invincibility to this sort of offense, however. When they return, Ray says, "Grub's up." Fraser joins him in the kitchen and Ray hands him a plate of eggs and something akin to sausage.

"Had 'em in the freezer," Ray says. "God knows how long, but it's like permafrost, right?"

The sausage would hardly do at a Consular banquet, but it is more than passable. "Not exactly," Fraser says, "but it's more than adequate for the purpose."

"Good." Ray leans against the kitchen counter. "Been a long time since I had actual breakfast." He grins and waggles his fork at Fraser. "Or somebody worth cooking it for."

Fraser raises his eyebrows. "The stakeout in the Mulroney case --"

"Donuts don't count." Ray taps his fork on the plate. "Look -- you probably gotta get to work."

It only takes a moment to check the angle of the sun. "Soon," Fraser admits.

Ray looks down at his empty plate. "You figure this is one of those flower-things?"

"I had forgotten the flower entirely. Hm." He licks his own thumb, more as misdirection -- giving Ray something to focus on while he performs inward calculations -- than as diagnostic tool. However, there must be some reason why Ray is asking. "Do you think it is?"

"You want it to be?" Ray says, his eyes on the linoleum in his kitchen.

"No," Fraser says immediately.

Ray looks up at him with a wholly different sun angle. "Good." He grins at Fraser. "I'd hate to think I lost a perfectly good celibate streak for nothing."

The concept of broken celibacy brings Victoria into the sunlit kitchen with the force of a blizzard. Fraser sets down his plate and takes Ray's hand, trusting his warmth to push the memory farther away. "I know the feeling."

"Then we're good?"

"Yes." Ray kisses him, or Fraser kisses him, or it is one of those moments as natural as breathing where they both want the same thing at once.

Ray starts laughing in the middle. "Bet everybody's gonna figure we did it in the closet."

Fraser envisions admitting their belated transgression to the bullpen. The image loses much of its terror against the far more outré visions he experienced yesterday. "Perhaps it would be prudent to find out just how deeply everyone has decided to deny the occurrences," he suggests.

"I'm not letting them forget it," Ray says, and kisses him again. "Not if it means I get to not lie about this -- been there, done that, never wanna do it again." His smile is tight at the edges, reminiscent of old pain. "I'll bring it up every damn day even if it means I gotta remember Huey and Dewey -- you know."

The tradeoff sounds more than worthwhile. "Understood."

Ray drops him with Diefenbaker at the Consulate to change and get some work done, but only after Fraser assures him he will be at the station at lunchtime. When he arrives, it is to a far emptier and infinitely more subdued office than the one he witnessed slightly over a day previously. Everyone has their eyes on their own work, and even the phones seem distant.

"Hey, Fraser," Francesca says. "I solved your flower thing."

Fraser smiles. "Did you? That's excellent work, Francesca."

"Not so much," she says, "'cause the guy who sent it to me sent a card, and I know him, and he says it was a prank." She waves her hand. "Some high-level government drug thing."

"I see," Fraser says. "Do you have a motive?"

She blushes down to the collar of her pale blue shirt. "I dumped him Friday. But I'm not pressing charges -- and neither's anybody else -- so it doesn't matter so much."

Fraser nods. "Well done, in any case."

She smiles fleetingly. "Thanks."

"Fraser!" Ray yells from across the office. Fraser has enough time to turn towards him and prepare himself for the concept of a public display of affection before Ray kisses him most fervently.

Francesca says, "I knew it, you rat bastard!"

Fraser pats Ray on the shoulder, but Ray doesn't seem to understand that the kiss should be over until Fraser settles a hand on his hip.

Huey wolf-whistles from his desk. Dewey gives him a long -- and, if Fraser is any judge of such things, longing -- look, and he falls silent.

The Lieutenant comes out of his office. "What's all the damn racket -- oh, you two. Get back to work."

Ray lets Fraser go, grinning, but stays firmly in his personal space. "Right away, sir."  



End file.
